


An Ill-Timed Discovery

by Louffox



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Blob Cecil, Carlos is a Good Boyfriend, Cecil Whump, Cecil is Inhuman, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic, so friggin fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-20
Updated: 2013-11-20
Packaged: 2018-01-02 03:04:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1051776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Louffox/pseuds/Louffox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the comic by blobcecil on tumblr:<br/>Cecil is slammed by an awful bout of the flu. So sick, he can't work, he can't cook, he can't make tea, he can hardly even move, let alone pull on his human shape.<br/>Enter Carlos, caring and worried and oblivious boyfriend...</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Ill-Timed Discovery

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this comic by blob Cecil!  
> http://blobcecil.tumblr.com/post/67185933794/i-got-sick-and-promptly-forgot-about-our-date  
> Because whump is my bread and butter, I have an unhealthy obsession with any and all Night Vale everything, and blob Cecil is adorable.

Cecil was not well.

In fact, ‘not well’ was an understatement. He felt absolutely terrible. Like he’d been violently battered around all night in his sleep, like sharp-footed ants had been crawling up and down his throat all night, like he’d ticked off the Faceless Old Woman who lived in his home again and she’d packed his mouth with dead leaves, like his sinuses were full of scorpion acid. His throat itched, but he fought coughing, knowing it would hurt his raw throat worse- but to no avail, he coughed anyways and it hurt just as much as he knew it would.

Tea. Tea would help, and maybe something soft- some yogurt would feel good on his trembling stomach and sore throat. He fought his way free of the covers- all twelve of his limbs were impossibly tangled- and sluggishly moved to the edge of his bed. Even that motion made him dizzy.

By the time he got to the kitchen, he was so dizzy and tired he couldn’t even summon the energy to open the fridge, and he didn’t think he could stomach anything anymore. He abandoned that plan and made his slow way to the living room couch, where he extended a shaking tentacle to catch a blanket and cover himself in it.

There was no avoiding it- he was sick. Too sick for work, which made his heart ache almost as much as his throat and brain did (he didn’t call them headaches, as he was in his shapeless eldritch form, and had no definable head, though he had a higher concentration of eyes near one edge of his form and sometimes thought of that as his front) but there was no way he was speaking today. Or even assuming his humanoid form. And driving in this form was a terrible idea, he’d learned long ago.

So he blearily scratched the glyphs into his coffee table and salted them and whispered the code- this was the standard procedure to signal Station Management that he was calling in sick. They would be displeased, but at least he was doing it early. And even they, in all their transcendence, couldn’t prevent people from getting sick occasionally.

It had been years since he’d had to call in sick. Aside from the round with lyme disease and the occasional bout of Awareness, he rarely got ill. He was about due for something awful like this.

It didn’t make him feel any better.

He dozed off on the couch for another two hours, sleeping fitfully with strange dreams that he only half remembered. Sleeping didn’t help much- he still felt like he’d just gone twelve rounds with a librarian. Maybe he should see if he had any cold medicine in his bathroom cabinet, but the bathroom was a long ways away. He was glad he didn’t have to use the bathroom. Which made him think, he should probably be hydrating. He was bathed in a cold sweat, shivering cold but still feverish beneath his blanket.

What would Carlos do? he thought, something he often asked himself nowadays. But even the thought of his handsome, perfectly imperfect, genius boyfriend didn’t make him feel much better.

He managed to get to the kitchen, slide himself up half on the counter (poking himself in three eyes on the way- his humanoid form had much less eyes to poke, but there was no way he could find the effort to don that in this state) and got a glass of water, then retreated right back to the couch. He only drank a few sips before putting it down- all eight of his mouths hurt, none of his throats could handle drinking anything. Even cool water. The act of swallowing was agony.

Another hour of going in and out of sleep, slumped across the couch. He shifted every few minutes- every position made him ache after a short time. He made a disgruntled sort of groan, because it made him feel better, and then winced at the sound of his own voice. What a wreck.

There was a knock at the door, and he froze, eyes going wide. He listened hard. After a minute, there was another knock, louder. An oaky voice called out through the door.

“Cecil? Can I come in?”

Carlos. Oh, shit, Carlos. His perfect boyfriend, whom he’d yet to show his true form. Whom he’d shared his opening ritual with, so he could come by anytime.

Uh oh.

Cecil immediately focused his meager energies on pushing himself into human form. He whimpered- it hurt, the transition to bones and blood vessels and membranous organs ached, and he had to stop halfway there, panting, sweating, but the door was opening and he managed to cram the rest of the change over him just in time.

><><><><<><><><><><>< CARLOS POV

Carlos walked cautiously in- despite Cecil’s open invitation, he felt intrusive walking around his house. He came around the corner and saw Cecil, and he immediately felt overwhelming concern when he saw the poor man.

Cecil looked, in a word, terrible. His brow shone with sweat, his blonde hair damp with his bangs stuck to his forehead, his skin nearly translucent, cheekbones flushed bright purple with fever spots, bags under his eyes, lips cracked, wearing only loose red pajama pants with white stripes, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

At the sight of Carlos, the radio host burst into tears, and Carlos all but ran to his side, pulling him into his arms.

“Oh Cecil,” he sighed, tucking him under his chin and rubbing his back soothingly. He wiped away a few tears- they were silver and a bit more viscous than water, like mercury- and kissed his forehead. “You should have called me.”

“I-I-I-I’m sorry,” he stuttered, and Carlos winced with pity at the sound of his voice- usually smooth, vanilla ice cream, sweet and velvety, but now it was rough and cracked and soft. Broken.

“No, no, it’s fine. I’m here now. I’m going to take care of you. Marie told me you didn’t come into work today,” he said, naming the Secret Police officer assigned to him. “I thought I’d come over and see what was wrong. I’m glad I did.”

“‘M glad you’re here,” Cecil slurred, pressing his face into Carlos’s chest.

“What symptoms are you presenting with?” Carlos asked, laying the back of his hand on Cecil’s forehead and frowning at the heat.

“Sore. Achey. My sinuses hurt. And my throat. And I’m tired. Kind of nauseous, but not bad. Cold, shivery,” he listed weakly.

“Sounds like flu. You should’ve gotten a flu shot,” Carlos said, shaking his head.

“I don’t ever get sick,” he whimpered, and Carlos squeezed him gently.

“Have you eaten anything today?”

“No. Tried to sip water. Hurts,” he mumbled into his chest.

“Alright, do you think you could stomach something gentle? Scrambled eggs, maybe? You need to keep your strength up,” he advised.

“Yeah. I don’t feel sick sick, just icky,” Cecil said, reluctantly releasing him so he could get up.

“Okay. Well, I’m going to make you some scrambled eggs and tea. I’ll look around for some kind of drink mix, too, something that isn’t water should help,” Carlos said, standing and kissing his forehead again.

“Thank you.”

“Shh.”

He went into the kitchen and found the frying pan and eggs easily enough (the house was obviously just as worried about Cecil- the fridge opened without him even asking please) and began scrambling them, putting the kettle on the other stove surface. While that was going, he quickly checked the bathroom cabinet (careful not to knock down the sheet that covered the mirror) and was delighted to find a bottle of cold medicine. It was liquid, but it seemed okay. He read the ingredients as he finished cooking, and there were only two he didn’t recognize, but he didn’t see any poisons or dangerous chemicals.

The house felt strange, and Carlos realized it was the lack of Cecil in every nook and cranny. He had the type of personality that filled a room. It was a place that was always full of chatter, or singing, or sound. Hell, even when Cecil was unloading the dishwasher, it sounded melodious rather than noisy. He was a creature of sound.

And now his throat was a wreck and he was sick. Carlos’s heart seemed to swell within his chest (pericarditis or myocarditis) with love and care.

He added a bit of parmesan and salt to the scrambled eggs, just the way Cecil liked it, poured two mugs of tea, and managed to get the whole armload (medicine, mugs, plate of eggs) into the living room without spilling anything, which struck him as miraculous- he was the clumsiest thing in the lab, which was embarrassing. Luckily, his spills usually were fairly harmless. They’d only had to evacuate the lab twice, not counting the time with the pepper monsters. (Hey, hot peppers were supposed to grow spicier in the desert, it had been just a pet project. He hadn’t known they would mutate demonic, it wasn’t his fault.)

Cecil had slumped over sideways, his head on the armrest and curled up so he only took up two of the three cushions, eyes half-mast. He smiled weakly at Carlos as he pulled the coffee table closer and set the things down on it.

“Medicine first, then food,” Carlos said, pouring out the prescribed amount. It claimed to be butter flavored, which sounded strange but smelled extremely palatable. Cecil threw it back without arguing, wincing as he swallowed. Carlos passed him his tea, and he sipped gingerly at it.

“After you eat, we can put on the TV and relax,” the scientist decided, finding the remote. Cecil ate slowly, Carlos rubbing his back encouragingly and wincing in empathetic pain at each swallow. When he was finished, Carlos put the plate away and came back to find the TV had put itself on I Love Lucy, one of Cecil’s favorite shows. When Carlos sat down, Cecil made a contented noise and turned to lie his head on Carlos’s lap and wrap his arms around his waist. The scientist bent to press his lips to his temple, and through the show continued to card his hand through his hair soothingly. At some point, Cecil’s heavy lids won the battle and his breathing slowed, establishing the slow, easy rate of sleep.

><><><><><><><>< CECIL POV

He hadn’t intended to fall asleep.

When he woke, it was to a jostling motion that startled him to consciousness, and noise.

“Cecil! Ce- Cecil!!”

“Hmmm,” he hummed, blinking owlishly, stretching. He still felt awful- the shouting was hurting his head.

“Cecil, you’ve got to wake up- I don’t know what this is, is… Is this normal for the flu in Night Vale?” Something was wrong with the voice. It was Carlos. And it was afraid.

Cecil opened his eyes and realized what had happened with a sickening jolt, and he slammed the change back through himself, tearing through it at a speed that would’ve made even his healthy self wince.

As it was, he arched his neck, every muscle spasming, and an awful high-pitched moan escaped from between his clenched teeth. Tears sprang to his eyes from the pain of it, and he gasped like an amphibian.

“Cecil!” Carlos cried, putting his hands on his pale face, looking fearful and uncertain as to what to do. Cecil saw his eyes were wide and afraid, and he choked back a sob.

“I’m fine, I’m- it’s fine,” he ground out, slumping back into his lab. His fingers had tremors and his vision spun, so he wrapped his arms around his middle rather than hugging them around Carlos.

“That was not fine, Cecil, what the hell just happened?” Carlos demanded, gently turning his face so Cecil had to look up and meet his eyes. “For a minute, you started… you started growing tentacles. And eyes, all over your skin.” Cecil didn’t say anything, so he continued. “Is this… was that normal for the flu here?”

“Yes,” Cecil whispered, but looking in each others eyes, he knew Carlos could see the lie.

“C’mon, Cecil, I’m worried, I’m confused, I’m afraid. Don’t shut me out. What was that?” Carlos said, and he did look so upset and worried that Cecil closed his eyes.

“Fine. I just.. I didn’t want to tell you like this. I… honestly, I don’t know if I was ever going to tell you.” He stopped to cough painfully in his elbow, struggling to breathe, and Carlos rubbed his back and handed him tea when he was done.

“It’s… you should sit over there. And I understand if you want to leave- once you know. I… It’s okay,” he said, not sure if he was reassuring Carlos or himself.

Carlos bit his lip,but moved to perch on the coffee table, not far away but far enough. Cecil sighed, and with a tired groan, let himself slide into his natural form.

Mostly shapeless, with a general oval shape and irregular, undulate borders. A concentration of tentacles, a dozen or so. Almond-shaped eyes, a smattering of them on his body. Definitely inhuman. Definitely not the body Carlos fell in love with. Definitely unloveable.

Carlos stared, eyes wide, hands gripping the edge of the coffee table in a death grip.

Cecil closed all of his eyes and pressed himself back against the couch, trying to make himself small. “I’m sorry I lied,” he rasped.

The background noise was of Lucy slapping someone with a satisfying crack.

The room was silent for a few long minutes. Cecil didn’t open his eyes, he didn’t think. He let the despair was over him in waves. And then… then he felt a gentle hand, dry from being in rubber gloves all the time, long-fingered and brown, cautiously come in contact with one of his tentacles, picking it up and grasping it in both hands.

He opened his eyes to see Carlos kneeling in front of the couch, holding the tentacle almost in supplication, gazing at him.

“Cecil. I love you.”

He closed his eyes again, letting the words wash over him.

“This doesn’t change that. Nothing will ever change that. I love you.”

“I love you so much. No matter what.”

“Please, Cecil. Don’t hide.”

Cecil finally spoke, fighting the pain in his throat. “Really?” he whispered, opening one eye.

“Really. I mean, I’m not pleased that you deceived me- but I’m not angry. I’m not upset, or disgusted, or whatever it is you’re thinking. I have a million questions, but I’ll save them for when your throat isn’t inflamed.”

“You love me? Even like this?” Cecil asked uncertainly.

“Of course,” he said, like it was no big deal, like it was obvious. He cracked a smile. “Do you really think I’m so shallow that I need you to look a certain way?”

“But… I’m not even human.”

“That’s okay. Hell, that’s probably a good thing. You’re human in the good definition of it.”

“I… I don’t know what to say,” Cecil confessed hoarsely.

“You don’t have to say anything. You’re sick, save your voice,” Carlos said. And he did the unthinkable- he moved to sit on the couch beside Cecil, cuddling up to him and smiling when he gingerly rested half on the scientist’s lap and wrapped a few tentacles around him. “Though, that’s new- the Voice has nothing to voice,” he laughed.

“I love you,” Cecil said fervently, giving him a squeeze.

“I love you too.”

Once Cecil recovered, Carlos did have a million questions. Unfortunately, he couldn’t ask any of them. He presented with the flu a day after he deemed Cecil healthy. It was nearly exactly the same situation- waking up feeling like absolute hell, calling in sick (though he used the phone rather than the station management mandated rituals) and Cecil letting himself in to take care of him.

He did find out one thing, though. His tentacles were marvelous for massages and sponge baths.

 


End file.
